


Somewhere in between the beginning and the end

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very first night, after serial murders and Chinese food at midnight, they fall asleep on the couch together, slumped against each other like puppets with their strings cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere in between the beginning and the end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cold_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cold_tea/gifts).



> For cold_tea, who won me in the AO3 auction earlier this year. I am so, so sorry that this took forever to get to you.
> 
> Title comes from "Bulletproof Weeks" by Matt Nathanson.

**.001**  
The very first night, after serial murders and Chinese food at midnight, they fall asleep on the couch together, slumped against each other like puppets with their strings cut. John snores and Sherlock's bony elbow leaves a bruise on John's thigh and they both wake up the next morning with cricks in their necks and neither of them can find it in themselves to regret anything they did the previous day, including the use of an illegal firearm and almost ingesting what was most likely not a poisonous pill.

John is the first to crack, giggling like a schoolboy, shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee with Sherlock, who sucumbs only seconds later. It lasts only a minute, but it leaves them both feeling lighter than before.

"And you thought chasing after a cab on foot was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever done," Sherlock says into the silence of the flat and that sets the both of them off again.

Once they've exhausted their giggles, John pushes himself up and stretches, his joints popping loudly in the quiet of the flat. He turns to Sherlock and hauls him to his feet. "Up you get," he says. "You're helping me move this morning."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are."

 

 **.61**  
"I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Sherlock resolutely doesn't look at John, doesn't think about John wearing explosives enough to kill them all, doesn't imagine what his life without John Watson in it would be like.

(He's already known that life and he doesn't want to, he _can't_ , go back to that.)

"But we both know that's not quite true."

 

 **.340**  
"Jeanette broke up with me," is the first thing John says to Sherlock, not even bothering to look up from the paper.

Sherlock pours himself a coffee (black, two sugars) and wanders into the living room and plops himself down across the desk from John. He grunts when John pushes a plate of eggs toward him and ignores it in favor of his coffee.

"She thought I was a better boyfriend to you than to her," John says after a few moments of silence broken only by the rustle of the paper and the muted traffic sounds from outside. Sherlock continues to sip his coffee and ignore the slowly congealing eggs on his plate.

"Sarah said something along the same lines when she broke up with me," John continues. He's still looking at the paper, though Sherlock knows he's not actually reading it; on average, John spends approximately three minutes per page and it's been nearly four and a half minutes since he last turned the page.

"Why is it everyone seems convinced that we're dating?" John asks, finally setting the paper aside in favor of his own coffee. 

"Haven't the foggiest," Sherlock replies, snagging a piece of soggy toast from John's plate and biting into it. 

 

 **.502**  
"Goodbye, John."

 

 **.547**  
The first words John says to Sherlock when he comes back are, "You're okay," and then he slams the door in Sherlock's face.

The next words John says to Sherlock after he comes back are, "You're a complete bastard," as he presses a tea towel against Sherlock's bleeding face.

"I can't believe you hit me in the face with your front door," Sherlock absolutely does not whine through what he's mostly sure is a broken nose.

"That's what you get for inviting yourself in after coming back from the fucking _dead_ , Sherlock," John all but snarls and Sherlock suddenly remembers John's arms locked around Sherlock's neck all those months ago and _"I had bad days."_

"I didn't do it to hurt you," Sherlock tells him. "I did it to save your life. Next time I'll just let the sniper shoot you in the back of the head, shall I?"

"Just how does you jumping from a building keep a sniper from shooting me in the back of the head?" John asks, setting the tea towel aside so he can press the pads of his fingers to Sherlock's nose before abruptly shifting the cartilage back into alignment. 

Sherlock grunts, startled and in pain, and feels his eyes start to water. 

"And don't think you're getting out of telling me exactly how you managed not to die after falling from the top of a building," John tells him. He tosses the bloodied tea towel in the bin and settles into the seat across from Sherlock. "Start talking."

Sherlock talks.

 

 **.548**  
Sherlock's voice is completely hoarse when John finally stops the deluge of words pouring from his mouth.

"Thank you," John says, his mouth doing something complicated, as if he can't decide whether he wants to smile or frown. "I'm still incredibly angry with you, but thank you."

"Any time," Sherlock says.

And they both know he means it even as they both know they won't survive something like this again.

 

 **.574**  
They're coming home from the shops, John out of necessity and Sherlock accompanying him out of a lingering sense of guilt, when it happens. John is carrying most of the bags (Sherlock's guilt only goes so far, apparently) and Sherlock is fiddling with his phone, completely distracted, so it's John who shoulders open the front door and leads the way up to the flat. 

Later, he's able to piece together what must have happened. Sherlock, paying more attention to the phone in his hand than the stairs under his feet, must have misstepped and ended up tumbling down half a dozen steps before coming to rest on his back on the floor in the foyer.

John doesn't remember dropping the bags or rushing down the stairs but be must've since the next thing he's aware of is kneeling at Sherlock's side, his hands flying over Sherlock's body, trying to figure out where he's hurt the most. He'd be more worried about a spinal injury except Sherlock is methodically twitching each of his limbs in turn and letting out the occasional grunt of pain.

"How's your head feel?" John asks, focusing his attention there and trusting Sherlock to let him know if he has a more pressing injury. He presses his fingers against Sherlock's skull, seeking out any possible contusions hidden by his mass of hair. "Any pain? Visual symptoms?"

"Pain, but bearable," Sherlock answers. "It hurt more when you broke my nose." 

John doesn't let himself feel guilty. Honestly, Sherlock was lucky he got away with _just _a broken nose, which is something John knows that Sherlock knows. "Any other pain?" he asks, lifting Sherlock's head slightly to feel along the back of it.__

__"No."_ _

__"Good," John says just before he thumps Sherlock in the shoulder, his other hand still cradling Sherlock's head. "Don't do that again."_ _

__Sherlock at least has the good grace to look abashed, if not contrite._ _

__

__**.707**  
"You've taken down your online dating profile."_ _

__"It's your present. Happy birthday, by the way."_ _

__"In what way is this a present for _me_?"_ _

__"They were always right, you know? I do put you ahead of them. I decided that I may as well make it somewhat official. What's the phrase again? 'Married to your work'?"_ _

__"Thank you, John."_ _

__"You're welcome."_ _

__

__**.867**  
John can't sleep._ _

__He's been staring into the shadows in the far corner of his room for what feels like days now, but what a glance at his alarm clocks shows to be just over an hour._ _

__The flat is too quiet._ _

__"This is ridiculous," he mutters to himself, throwing back his blankets and pushing himself upright. The stairs squeak when he steps on them, but he's not trying to be stealthy, so the noise doesn't much concern him._ _

__The living room and kitchen are dark, but there's a sliver of light illuminating the hallway from where Sherlock likely fell asleep while reading in bed again._ _

__He's in front of Sherlock's door before he can't talk himself out of it. He's not going to do anything but take a quick glance into the room to calm his subconscious, but he still feels slightly creepy doing so._ _

__The door doesn't squeak or creak or make any sort of noise, but Sherlock still glances up from the book leaning against his bent legs and John freezes._ _

__"John?" Sherlock asks, but John can't do anything but stare at his friend. His friend who is alive and not buried after taking a header from the top of a building. His friend who is even now setting aside his book and gesturing John into the room._ _

__John can't move, can't really think of anything beyond, _not dead, he's not dead, he's really here, i'm not insane, he's not dead, it really is a miracle_._ _

__Sherlock's hand on his arm pulls him from his thoughts and John allows himself to be guided to the bed where he all but collapses, allowing his body to tip sideways until his face is pressed into Sherlock's pillow. He feels Sherlock's hands on his ankles, lifting his legs onto the bed._ _

__Once he has John settled, Sherlock makes his way to the other side of the bed, close enough to John's back that John can feel the tilt of the mattress, but far enough away that they're not touching._ _

__"I am sorry, John," Sherlock says, resting his hand against the side of John's neck, his thumb rubbing against the grain of John's hair._ _

__John lets out a shuddering breath._ _

__When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock's hand is still on his neck._ _

__

__**.1016**  
John squints at the paper and holds it a little farther out, hoping that will clear up the typeface just enough for him to be able to read it. He ignores Sherlock's snort and wills the print to sharpen._ _

__"You realize you're being ridiculous," Sherlock says and John almost hurts himself holding back all the reasons that's the most hypocritical statement Sherlock's ever made. "There's no reason for you not to be wearing your reading glasses right now."_ _

__"I don't really need them," John insists, not looking up from the paper. "And you can stop looking at me like that right now." He doesn't need to look to know that Sherlock is looking at him in utter disbelief._ _

__He doesn't flinch when Sherlock perches the glasses on his nose, only straightens them where one of the earpieces is sitting too high._ _

__"I can't wait to see how you deal with needing glasses in a few years," he grumbles._ _

__"I can't possible do it with any less grace than you," Sherlock returns, dodging away from John's half-hearted swat._ _

__

__**.1844**  
Sherlock, the bastard, not only uses his reading glasses without a fuss, but he also has the nerve to look rather dashing in the dark plastic frames with his hair, finally gaining a bit of silver at the temples, falling around his face._ _

__John's not at all sure that it's fair that Sherlock looks so good in his glasses while John himself just looks like someone's middle aged dad._ _

__They're sharing the couch one evening, John with a novel and Sherlock with a biography of Eugene-Francois Vidocq, and John can see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, looking every bit the dapper detective with his glasses and his suit and his bloody cheekbones._ _

__Sherlock gets up and wanders into the kitchen and John turns his attention back to his book, trying to forget his insecurities. After a few minutes, Sherlock comes back, bearing two cups of tea and John takes his gratefully._ _

__"Let's watch _Antiques Roadshow_ ," Sherlock says, pushing his glasses onto the top of his head which has the effect of pulling his hair back from his face and now he looks like nothing more than a child wearing an Alice band and it takes everything John has not to laugh at the image._ _

__"Sure," John agrees, setting his book and glasses aside. Sherlock's toes eventually make their way under the edge of John's thigh and John's hand settles around Sherlock's ankle and John has a hard time remembering why he'd been so bothered earlier._ _

__

__**.2521**  
John was right, all those years ago; Christmas with the Holmeses isn't something he could have ever imagined and he's glad he never tried. Nothing his mind could've ever conjured would have lived up seeing both Mycroft and Sherlock unwrap matching reindeer jumpers, both trying and failing to look anything other than completely mortified about their mother's insistence that they put them on immediately._ _

__(John doesn't need any prodding to replace his own red and green jumper with the blue and white snowflake jumper gifted to him by Mrs. Holmes and John is, in fact, the only person smiling in the photo that Mrs. Holmes insists on taking once they're all in their new jumpers.)_ _

__

__**.3652**  
They go to dinner, a not at all uncommon occurrence, though John insists on something nicer than their usually Chinese. They order a bottle of wine and make outlandish observations about their fellow diners that get them more than one sidelong look that both of them pretend not to notice. They order another bottle of wine and linger over their desserts; John fights a losing battle against Sherlock filching bits of his eclair and retaliates by taking a huge chunk out of Sherlock's cheesecake._ _

__When they finally leave the restaurant, John links his arm through Sherlock's bent elbow, a practice that has more than once kept Sherlock from inadvertently wandering into traffic. Sherlock doesn't take his phone out this evening, though, and they spend the walk home in companionable silence._ _

__Once home, they shuck shoes and coats and while Sherlock settles himself on the couch, John pours them both a small measure of scotch. He hands Sherlock one of the tumblers and settles down next to him, their arms pressed together warmly._ _

__"To another ten years where neither of us actually dies," John says, holding his tumbler aloft in a toast._ _

__Sherlock clinks their glasses together and says, "And to another ten after that."_ _

__

__**.3653**  
They wake up the next morning, slightly hungover and both of them with cricks in their necks and John is the first to crack, though Sherlock succumbs to his giggles only seconds later, and it feels like that first morning all over again._ _

__To another ten years indeed._ _

__

__**.end** _ _


End file.
